Twice into the Abyss
by Calecus
Summary: Having been 'vanquished' in the last battle against Harry Potter, Voldemort did not expect to open his eyes and be back in the past in the year 1991... not to mention still being stuck behind Quirrell's head. Time Travel. Slash. Eventual LVHP.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Harry Potter & its characters all belong to J.K. Rowling. I make no profit from it.

o-O-o

There was nothing here. No, that was not entirely true. Rather, everything appeared to be draped in darkness. It was very similar to black ink spilling into the corners of a white parchment. And so black that it seemed to swallow every bit of light up, leaving no sense of time or direction. Yet somehow, Voldemort was not overly concerned with it too much.

It seemed like his consciousness was just _there_ — existing intangibly within this dark void. Perhaps this was death, although he somewhat expected more. Despite the relative 'peacefulness' of this place, it did not fool him into lowering his guard. Voldemort refused to wallow in this supposed limbo after everything he'd accomplished and sacrificed. He would scream it to all the deities to defy such a fate.

Minutes or hours could have passed until something eventually caught his attention. Not very far away, a dark glow was blinking in and out unsteadily. It called to him and Voldemort did not hesitate to investigate it. Drawing closer, he immediately recognised the glow.

His soul.

Or to be more precise, it was only a shard of his soul. The 'glow' was more of a misshapen glob than anything else. It looked shredded around the edges, and a few tendrils of grey even reached out to him desperately. It was hard to accept that this small, shriveled up piece was a part of him. For the first time, Voldemort felt an emotion akin to sadness rise as he watched the shard's struggle for survival.

Then out of nowhere, his soul piece was pulled away by a strange force. Anger instantly surfaced inside him as he tried to retrieve the piece. However, it soon grabbed a hold of him next, and Voldemort fought its tight grip, not willing to give in. Unfortunately, his resistance against the foreign energy was comparable to a stream's trickle against the current of a raging river — completely and utterly _weak_.

And then the pain started. Pain he knew and was more than willing to deliver, but this sensation was more than a mere Cruciatus Curse. The nearest it could be described to was having one's body being seared by burning oil and then grinded into tiny flecks afterwards.

Before it became too much to bear, it stopped; though, the reprieve was short lasting. His entire being was then wrenched from that dark chasm, only to be shoved into what seemed like a tighter space. Perhaps it was a cruel cosmic joke, but Voldemort couldn't help feeling like an insect in a glass jar in that moment.

Whatever it was that occurred, he eventually sensed his surroundings settle solidly. He swiftly examined himself, inspecting to see if his soul was damaged. Once he'd determined that no harm was inflicted, Voldemort came to the realisation that something significant had changed in him.

Unexpectedly, he felt almost corporeal — no longer a weightless being. Although, it didn't feel like he had a body. He couldn't move his hands, legs or anything. If Voldemort was a lesser man, then panic would have set in long before now. As it stood, he was merely contemplating on the situation.

"Master? Is something wrong?"

All thoughts halted at the sound. The voice was a familiar one, very much like an old servant of his. Now, what was his name? It had something to do with quills or quarrels — Quirrell. Yes, that was it. But that couldn't be possible because the wizard was dead, unless...

"Unbind the turban," Voldemort rasped out, relieved that his voice had also returned. Before the man could protest, he shouted, "Now!"

"Ye-yes, Master."

Very slowly, light crawled in and his eyes opened cautiously. The harsh brightness stung momentarily before he adjusted to it. As his vision cleared, Voldemort saw the all too recongnisable DADA office. Disbelief told him that this simply couldn't be real, yet he had to confirm it.

"A mirror, Quirrell." The command was swift and cold.

This time, the wizard did what he was told without question. A mirror was soon conjured before him. And glaring right back was the reflection of his distorted face... plastered on the back of Quirrell's head.

Without warning, memories flooded through in waves of images. The battle at Hogwarts, the Elder Wand and the destruction of his Horcruxes — all the events were replaying itself until one memory struck him in particular.

His defeat at Potter's hand.

That duel stung him in its sharpness of confusion and fear. It was a Disarming Charm. Voldemort had been killed by a simple Disarming Charm — a shout of _Expilliarmus_ and he was dead. How was that even logical?! It was such a pitiful and outrageous way to die; a defeat that grated on the very end of his nerves.

But more than anything, it was the fact Potter _won _the battle that had him seething with a burning distaste. The brat dared to dispose of him like a common vermin — as something less than worthy.

"Quirrell," Voldemort hissed quietly as he tried to regain control over himself. "What is the day?"

"Uh, today is All Hallows Eve, Master," his servant answered promptly, albeit with confusion.

Halloween. It was the most powerful day to connect with the dead. To die, only to be brought back to this very day — it seemed the universe was indeed playing him like a puppet. That or he was under a powerful illusion, but he very much doubted it. Still, time travel of this magnitude should not even be conceivable. Then again, magic had always been capable of many great deeds and add to that the strength of All Hallows Eve...

His mind raced with the possibilities.

"Master, the Halloween feast is about to start and the troll is ready to be released at your command," Quirrell revealed warily, interrupting his thoughts.

The least of his concerns should be a troll at the moment, but he needed time to sort through this whole mess. The troll was far from an adequate distraction in the past, and it was hard to believe at one time he'd actually agreed to the idiotic plan at all.

"There will be no need for the troll," he firmly told the other wizard.

He sensed Quirrell's bewilderment like a leaf floating aimlessly in the wind. "But Master, what of the Philosopher's Stone?"

A smirk appeared at the question. "There shall be a change in the plan regarding the stone."

A different approach was required for him to regain a new body. It was something he should have rectified long ago. A mistake that costed him too much; he knew that now. But with this method, his body and power should be restored in ways the stone couldn't accomplish.

He quickly ordered his servant to behave as usual, not wanting anyone to discover the truth of this night. Quirrell then went on to offer his assurances of not failing him, though he'd already tuned the man out by now.

As Voldemort glanced back to the mirror, a grimace slid its way to his lips. '_By the seven Hells, I truly do look pathetic._'

o-O-o

"Harry," Ron nudged him on the arm as they sat in the Hogwarts Great Hall, "you all right there? You've been rubbing your forehead for a while now."

He placed his hand down, resisting the urge to touch his scar again. "It's nothing, Ron — just a little headache."

A headache that suddenly appeared when Harry felt fine all day. It wasn't really painful or anything, just an irritating prickle behind his scar. Harry didn't know what to think of it, but he didn't want Ron to worry. Yet if he was truthful with himself, Harry just didn't want to stand out any more than he already did. And the famous lightning bolt scar acting weird would garner such unwanted attention.

"A headache?" Ron seemed to ponder that over, mouth pursed to the side in thought. "I think I know what's causing your headache, Harry," his friend abruptly told him, adopting a serious tone.

"You do?" Perhaps it had more to do than just his scar, though he hoped it wasn't some kind of magical illness. Harry remembered the other day how Seamus described Dragon Pox — now that was _not_ a pretty sickness he wanted to catch.

"Yeah," Ron angled his body to face him, his stare intent. "You're not eating enough food so your body is getting weaker," with that said, the other boy began piling more food onto Harry's plate, filling it up with everything near them.

He looked oddly at as his friend, trying to make sense of it. "Ron, I don't think that's the reason," Harry might not be familiar with the wizarding world's ailments, but he was certain a lack of food was not the cause. "Besides, the ache is roughly gone now."

The other boy shrugged, oblivious to the stack of shepherd's pie spilling over the plate. "My mum always says that not eating enough will get you sick."

Well, that would explain the red head's love of eating so voraciously... or maybe not. "Ron, only you will get sick over something like that," he said in jest as the memory of missing meals under the Dursleys' care lingered in the back of his mind. It was something Harry tried not to think about now that he was at Hogwarts.

"Anyway, hurry up, Harry," Ron shoved a few more treacle tarts into his mouth, chewing rapidly as if the food would grow legs and run off. "The feast is almost over, and you still haven't touched the cauldron cakes yet."

Not needing any more encouragements, he tried the cake and a pumpkin pastry. While Ron was finishing up, Harry took this chance to look up, taking in the view of the Great Hall.

Flaming candles hovered above their heads for the feast, while decorative cob webs and cut-out pumpkins proudly displayed themselves around each corner. Even the winged bats were charmed to swoop down and surprise a few people. Tonight, the school was so playfully elaborate, vividly colourful and full of wonder. It truly was a whole different world than that of Little Whinging that he was simultaneously grateful for being here and regretful to have just discovered it now.

If only he could have been like any regular kid growing up in the wizarding world.

The students at the Gryffindor table were also having a grand time. The loud laughs and silly singing from the twins could definitely attest to that. Everyone was surely enjoying themselves, although the absence of a certain person was going mostly unnoticed. Someone he'd failed to see before.

"I heard from Parvati that Hermione's been crying in the girls' bathroom," Harry mentioned, glancing back down.

Ron's face was scrunched up like he'd just swallowed a sherbet lemon. "She's too sensitive, mate. Hermione will get over it soon enough and return to being a know-it-all by tomorrow." The red head then continued on with the feast, but a stubborn expression remained on his friend's countenance.

"If you say so, Ron," Harry didn't pursue the subject any further, choosing to believe the other boy was right and that their fellow house mate would soon be back to normal.

Turning to the head table, Harry watched all the professors. Hagrid was merrily taking a drink from his large goblet, while Sprout and McGonagall were involved in a lively discussion. And the other professors were happily eating their fill before the plates could disappear.

Of course, the only professor to have noticed his quiet assessment was the one Harry was trying to avoid. The potions master tossed a familiar glare his way, daring him to act out. He quickly averted his gaze, looking for a distraction until his scar suddenly reacted again, almost making him gasp in surprise. This time, Harry didn't resist the urge to touch it.

It could have been his imagination, but he swore his scar felt warmer for that split second.

o-O-o

Light streamed through the glass window, casting his office in a soft glow. Albus grazed his fingers on one of the many tomes that filled the book case, wondering if the answer to his questions could be conveniently found within the confines of its pages.

He eventually turned towards the only other occupant in the room. "Ah, excuse my wandering mind, Severus. What were you saying?"

Severus pressed his lips in annoyance, a habit that was occurring more often since the start of term. "I asked if you have chosen the final protection for the stone because I see no reason why you should wait till the winter holidays to enforce it."

Albus had indeed planned to use the Mirror of Erised when the students were gone from the castle. However, a recent incident was encouraging him to hasten that plan.

"Do not worry, Severus. I have decided to execute the final protection before then, but there is something else that you should know," seating himself behind the desk, Albus dove to the crux of the matter. "As of last night, a small magical flux appeared in the castle's wards — right before the feast to be exact."

A magical flux was basically just a fluctuation in the magical energies of the wards. They weren't common, but the flux could still occur in wards as old as Hogwarts. Yet it was what happened after the flux that had him concerned.

"And you are informing me of this now," it was a toneless statement, but it carried an unasked question.

Albus smiled at the potions master. "It wouldn't have been polite to interrupt your enjoyment in the Halloween festivities."

Severus gave him a look that was most often reserved for the Gryffindor students. "I spent most of last night patrolling the corridors that _you _vouched was secured enough, avoiding that wretched cat of Filch and confiscating a number of fire whiskeys from the seventh years. Trust me when I say there was no _enjoyment_ involved whatsoever."

The impulse to smile even wider was very hard to overcome, but with years of experience, Albus managed to withhold it. Just barely. Severus had always been one to take his duties too seriously, but what most didn't know was how the man had the tendency for the histrionics in some circumstances.

"Even so, the flux lasted all for a second, and the wards are still intact, appearing to be unaffected by the whole thing."

The potions master frowned in thought, absorbing everything that was said. Dark eyes then narrowed suspiciously. "Something else must have occurred, or you wouldn't have bothered to reveal this. Well? What is it?"

They stared at one another, each assessing how to next proceed or respond to the coming information. For some unknown reason, Albus was reluctant to tell the other wizard; although, it was not out of distrust but worry.

A sigh then tumbled from his lips, rolling out to fill the silence. "It is the ghosts," Albus revealed. "They have since felt an increasing uneasiness from last night's anomaly. A sensation they described as nearly _physical_."

One brow arched in skepticism. "Uneasiness? They're dead, how can they even feel anything?" Severus made a motion with his hands in dismissal. "And they are always going on about this and that, so it's rubbish to put much stock in their words."

"Well, there is still much we have yet to discover about what happens after death," Albus explained, thinking back on all the research he'd done on the Resurrection Stone. "Did you know in the Department of Mysteries, there is a veil that—"

"Headmaster," the interruption was tinged with impatience. "As interesting as this is, why does it have you so concerned?"

Albus stood up again and wandered over to the window. The view of the grounds had always helped place things in perspective for him. "Not much can affect the dead but very powerful dark magic, Severus. The kind of magic that should be beyond human means," he said before turning back.

Severus' pallor countenance paled even more, but the man remained outwardly impervious otherwise.

"Do you suspect it has anything to do with the Dark Lord?" The question was delivered calmly, yet the anxiousness underneath was still detectable.

Feeling the years seep into his bones, his eyes met the potions master's own weary ones. "I believe there is a very high possibility of it."

o-O-o

The loud roar from the Hogwarts students as they waved their house banners was possibly one of the most offensive noises Voldemort ever had to endure. The distaste of watching through Quirrell's eyes did not help matters either; if anything it aggravated his annoyance. Children flying on brooms and chasing after balls — what a useless activity.

Even as a student, Voldemort had never understood their joy for the sport. How something as insipid and mundane could incite such fervour and idiotic excitement was simply illogical. But then again, he'd always been vastly different from his peers.

His diminishing patience was tested once more as another loud cheer came from the crowd.

It had been two weeks so far. That was the amount of time he had to adjust to this situation. Voldemort had already begun to research the circumstances surrounding his travel through time. Not much came from his labours, but he was certain such information must exist elsewhere.

And during this period, Voldemort had to exercise tolerance the likes his followers had never seen. Staying inconspicuously under Dumbledore's notice as he controlled his murderous aura around the man and everyone else was not a simple task. At first, living through this time again had seemed like a punishment until he saw it for what it was: an opportunity. It was a chance to change things to his advantage and crush his opponents faster than before. Due to this reason, he would plan and wait till the holidays.

By then, Voldemort would have his body back.

The gasps from those around him brought his concentration back to the game. Potter was flying past their stand in a flowing arc, so close to where they sat that he could nearly feel the wind upon Quirrell's skin.

"Oh my, Mr. Potter certainly flies like his father," commented Flitwick, a reminiscent awe tied to his words.

If James Potter flew as if he was born to dance in the air then Voldemort would hardly argue that. The boy flew with a fluid grace and agility that he remembered watching long ago. The Gryffindor had the skilled control that was rarely mastered in one so young.

How those movements had never transferred over to the boy's dueling remained a mystery to him.

It was oddly calming watching Potter fly with a happy expression pasted on his young face. In the back of Voldemort's mind, he secretly wished to see how that face would transform if the boy ever fell from the sky. Would it be fear for death or instead be regret and anger for wasting his life away in a stupid game? Either way, he was certain that it would be the most divine image.

Voldemort had not yet decided on what to do with Potter. The boy was his damn Horcrux for Merlin's sake. The person who was prophesised to vanquish him also carried a piece of _his_ soul. That was a huge incentive to not torture the brat on first sight… though he did imagine many inventive ways to dismember the little urchin throughout the feast.

Just then, the snitch was spotted by Potter and the other seeker. A chase commenced immediately, one that captured the spectators' attention. Watching the little Gryffindor swerve through the air, Voldemort smirked to himself. Killing the boy may be off the table, but that did not mean he couldn't mess with Potter a little bit.

o-O-o

The snitch gleamed brightly in his hand as he landed on the pitch. Its fluttering attempt to escape was fruitless, but Harry didn't take notice. All his attention was on the elated cries from the witches and wizards of Hogwarts while his team flew their way over to him. But there was also something else occupying his mind at that moment.

He was really itchy.

The itchiness began when he was still chasing the snitch. It felt as if ants were crawling all over his body, and it took all of his control to not scratch and concentrate on beating the other seeker instead. Yet now that he wasn't flying dangerously in the air, Harry couldn't ignore it any longer. With his free hand, he immediately scratched the back of his neck only to move down his arm a second later.

It was then that his teammates landed and rushed over to surround him in a tight circle. Harry accepted their congratulations happily, though he tried to furtively scratch his chest as Katie and Alicia hugged him.

Anticipating the wild party in the common room, they soon left the field with laughs and smiles while disregarding the jeers from the Slytherin team. Harry walked behind the group, hoping to avoid their scrutiny as he held off on scratching himself. Unfortunately, the Gryffindor keeper did take notice of his discomfort.

"Is something the matter, Harry?" Oliver asked quietly, so the others would not overhear.

His face flushed in embarrassment. "Uh, it's nothing, Oliver."

"Really?" The disbelief in the older boy's tone was obvious even to him.

Oliver stood beside him patiently, waiting for him to explain. Seeing no other way to deter the teen, Harry finally gave in. "I'm just a tad itchy," he muttered quickly, shifting uncomfortably next to the older boy as an itch crept up near his inner thigh.

The keeper's brows lifted questioningly for a moment before smoothing out in realisation. Oliver then reddened and coughed into his hand, looking as if he just stumbled upon some girl's undergarments.

"Probably the adrenaline still in your system," Oliver patted his shoulder knowingly. "It happens to Quidditch players some times. A cold shower should take care of it."

Harry blinked at the advice... that actually made sense. It was most likely all the sweat from the game that was making him itchy. "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."

Oliver then gave him an awkward nod before quickly walking away, anxious to be elsewhere.

Harry sighed in relief, glad that the conversation was over and more than eager to enjoy their victory. His first Quidditch game really was an exhilarating event and everything he could've imagined. Catching the snitch and winning the match was the perfect end to the whole experience; he could definitely see why people were so fanatic about the sport.

Now, if only Harry could stop scratching himself quick enough to reach the showers, since the twins were starting to unnerve him with their strange grins as they thumped him on the shoulder.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Harry Potter & its characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing but my imagination.

o-O-o

The explosion was heard, if not _felt_, through out the whole castle.

It was supposed to be like any other Sunday afternoon. Ron would wake up from a restful sleep, greet his dorm mates, and dodge his brother's attempts to test their inventions on him. All normal. They would then make their way down to the Great Hall for food. Walking through the corridors and talking to Harry about the Chudley Cannons - that was when it happened.

A loud boom seemed to shake the very foundations of the walls and floors, sending a few to the ground after losing their balance. Ron quickly grabbed hold of Harry, the other boy nearly toppling down the stairs at the end of the corridor.

The rumble of the castle only lasted for some moments, but once it was over, it left an eerie silence that challenged anyone ignorant enough to break it. A while later, all the other students were gazing around in confusion and trepidation, wondering if some threat was upon them.

They were correct.

It was the dark figure of Professor Snape as he came hurling down the corridors. The look on the man's face had every student scurrying away in fear while it left some in near tears. The greasy hair shining ominously, the pale complexion almost ghostly white, the yellow teeth snarling, and Merlin's beard - the crooked nose flaring out!

Ron stiffened at the sight of the potions master gliding towards him. All thoughts screamed at him to move out of the way yet his body wouldn't listen. He remained frozen like Ginny when she would meet one of her idols, except he wasn't meeting his idol but a big heaping of crap straight out of hell. It was all too much for him to handle.

Somewhere near him, he heard the most pathetic whimper. And if anyone said the sound had escaped from him, then Ron would deny it for all that he was worth.

Time appeared to be at a standstill as the man got closer and closer. Ron held his breath, hoping that he would be less noticeable. As the potions master's approach neared, he continued to stare back dumbly and watched until... the man passed them. Professor Snape stalked right by without giving him or any other student a second glance. No one moved a centimeter until the sound and sight of the potions master had faded away down another corridor.

Not until the very last footsteps were gone did Ron gasped for breath, sucking in the much needed air. He didn't know what that was all about, but he swore his life was flashing before his eyes.

"Ron?"

His friend's voice brought him out his thoughts. "Yeah, Harry?"

"Is it me, or is Snape in a fouler mood than usual?"

Ron turned to look at the other boy. Harry was still glancing at the corner where the professor's form disappeared to.

He managed a swallow, still unsettled by the whole thing. "That was no regular temper tantrum," living with his mother he saw what those were like, and this was far from it. "Snape looked like he was about to _murder_ the next person for sneezing in his potions, and I have to say, I hate to be the one he aims that madness towards."

o-O-o

"Murder?" McGonagall asked with a hint of disbelief. "Surely it was just an accident. Are you positive you didn't mislabel the ingredients somehow?"

Severus' shoulders straightened impossibly more rigid if that was possible, anger pouring out of his frame at the implied insult. As if he would make a mistake with potions!

"I mislabeled _nothing_. All the ingredients were properly labeled and organised by my own hands," Severus was barely holding onto civility as his fist clenched tighter in restraint. "The only explanation for the ingredients being in a jar not of their respective name was if someone intentionally tampered with them."

All the professors looked at him with worry. They had immediately convened in the Headmaster's office after confirming no harm had come to the students and checking if the stone was still secured. Only then were they calmed enough to discuss the cause of the explosion and what he just revealed to them.

Albus looked at him over the half-moon spectacles, the man's eyes were a sharp blue for once. "Are you certain it was not a prank, Severus?"

Prank.

There was that word again. The word that taunted him since he was a student. It was the excuse and dismissal to every humiliation and pain he suffered under those Gryffindors. After so many years, Severus assumed he had escaped from it - leaving it behind in his childhood. Perhaps he should have known better than to believe in such naive thoughts.

"This was no harmless prank," he spat out, his words almost manic with rage. "Whoever did this, knew which specific ingredients would produce an explosion powerful enough to kill a wizard."

That silenced them into clear horror this time. Severus didn't want to acknowledge it, but it was satisfying to let them have an idea of what he went through. Oh, it was only a small sample of it because they could hardly begin to understand what it was like. Nearly dieing from something you loved doing - it left a very bitter taste on your tongue.

Sprout was the first to speak up. "To have this happen when you were brewing a potion - I'm so glad you're all right, Severus." She came forward to perhaps touch his shoulder, but he moved away. Seeing that, the witch quietly accepted his need for space and back down.

"Yes, th-thank goodness you were unharmed, S-severus," Quirrell added through his stuttering. "Luck m-must be on your side to s-survive such an explosion."

A sneer curled on his lips. It was a natural response most days now to the oafs living in the castle. "It was far from luck and more due to quick reflexes. If I was a mere second off from casting the shield charm, then we wouldn't be having this conversation."

That was true. Just as Severus was adding an ingredient to the boiling potion did he notice too late that it was the wrong one. By then, the only thing he could do was cast the shield as the explosion destroyed half the room.

"W-well, if I could d-do anything to help, please l-let me know," the DADA professor went on, rubbing his hands nervously.

His response to that was another derisive sneer.

After a while, it was decided that precautions would be set up for the potion ingredients, and Albus would have the portraits keep watch during the night. There wasn't much they could do for now but speculate.

Severus didn't bother to stay any longer. He gave them a curt nod and walked towards the door, wondering if he could salvage anything from the potions classroom.

"Poor Pro-professor Snape," Quirrell's voice whispered, yet loud enough for him to catch. "T-the stress must b-be getting to him."

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Severus purposely slammed the door as he left the office.

o-O-o

Quirinus Quirrell's body locked the door with a swish of his wand. Control over his body slowly returned as his Master receded back while permitting him to see the memories of the past hour.

"Master, I do not understand," Quirrell hoped he wasn't overstepping his boundaries. Then again, it was hard not to when he was sharing his body with the other wizard. "Is Severus not a loyal follower?"

Voldemort settled back, feeling his magic wrap around him. "Perhaps at one time, but he has chosen a different path now."

As much as he despised Potter and Dumbledore, betrayal was something that he could never tolerate nor forgive. It left a putrid flavour in his mouth to know that he was deceived and played like a fool.

His servant made a noise of distress. "A traitor - Severus is a traitor!"

If it hadn't been so beneath him, Voldemort would have exhaled a tired sigh. "Silence yourself, Quirrell."

"But Master, the explosion didn't kill him," the wizard complained.

"No, it didn't," he remarked quietly to himself. In truth, he hadn't really expected the explosion to kill the potions master, and it was even predicted that Severus would escape without harm. After all, the man was one of his best and skilled Death Eaters.

However, that did not change one thing: Severus had betrayed him for a mudblood. As much as that angered and vexed him beyond thought, he was capable of understanding that emotion in others. Years of observing people, knowing their wants and desires to determine what motivated them - it was all so he could manipulate them to his will. The man had chosen to die for love, and he understood that. What he couldn't understand was how the very idea had constricted his chest to a point that it was almost uncomfortable; that more than anything disturbed him.

Quirrell walked over to the desk, arranging the few scattered parchments in nervousness. "Master, shall we set up another accident for Severus?"

Another accident was tempting, but it would be fruitless. Even the first one was merely planned on a whim to indulge himself, and he would not deny how the look on Severus' face had brought sharp amusement for him.

Despite his lax handling on the matter, Voldemort had promised himself to never give anyone the chance to abandon him - not since that day when he had killed all the Riddles. But to cast him aside as if he was no longer needed, and actively go against him by running towards Dumbledore of all people... well, that deserved more than a simple death.

"That won't be necessary, Quirrell," Voldemort told his servant. "Severus may yet to fulfill his role. He will live for now."

No, he would not kill the potions master. But in time, Severus shall taste the consequences of his betrayal.

o-O-o

Hedwig hooted quietly as he smoothed out her feathers. The DADA classroom was filled with the sounds of animals, all belonging to the students. Harry then smiled as the owl affectionately nipped his finger, asking for another treat. Looking over at his friend, Ron's pet rat was crawling on the red head's shoulder, content with its new perch.

So far, DADA had been a pretty unhelpful class. It wasn't the subject that was the problem, but the professor's stuttering. Harry had a difficult time understanding the man on most occasions, but with him teaching, it was just plain impossible. Hopefully, they would learn something interesting today since the professor had requested them to bring in their pets.

Everyone quieted down as the professor walked in. Lately, Harry had been noticing something different about Professor Quirrell. Though it was not the man's appearance or behaviour that had changed. It was just the man's presence that felt off, but not in a bad way. Harry didn't really know how to explain it, just that the older wizard's magic felt more palpable to him.

With the clearing of the throat, Professor Quirrell began. "S-since this is the last l-lesson before the Christmas h-holidays, I have asked e-everyone to bring in their familiars."

The professor then took his time to gaze over each of them along with their animals. It was just a cursory glance, but they seemed to hold their breath in anticipation.

"You s-see, there are some curses t-that can affect your familiars severely, and t-today I will show you w-what they are and h-how to reverse them."

Immediately, excited murmurs erupted from his peers, guessing on the type of spells they would soon see. Harry was also curious about it, and he wondered if they would get the chance to practice at all. It was not that he was impatient, but his hand was eager to try out some new spells.

"Mr. Weasley, m-may I use your r-rat as an example?"

Ron jerked in his seat, surprised at being called and embarrassed now that everyone was looking at him. "Uh, sure Professor," his friend mumbled.

Professor Quirrell summoned Scabbers with a flick of his wand, and the rat floated to a table beside the man. The professor did another flick that prevented the rat from scurrying off. All of this, Harry realised, the wizard had done silently without uttering the incantations.

"Watch c-closely everyone," Professor Quirrell said, wand pointed at Scabbers. "_Surculus vermis_".

The rat squeaked in alarm, trying to squirm away as all of its fur fell off and in its place sprouted hundreds of tiny worms.

"Scabbers!" Ron cried out, deeply concerned for his pet.

Meanwhile, every other student were cringing away from the vile creature. Harry himself was having a hard time not shuddering in disgust. The tiny worms were thrashing wildly, a coat of slime now dripping down on the table.

"D-do not worry, Mr. W-weasley," the professor aimed his wand at the rat once more. "I shall n-now reverse the spell w-with a counter." Professor Quirrell showed them the counter, and Scabber's fur grew right back in an instant, leaving no signs of the worms. Although the fur did appear thinner in some areas.

Harry could hear his friend's sigh of relief at having his rat back to normal.

"Remember this s-spell if your familiars a-are ever cursed in this way," Professor Quirrell reminded lightly.

Well, he would certainly remember that curse since its application could be for more than just animals; Harry could definitely imagine that curse being used on a human.

"Now h-here is another curse y-you should know," the professor went on, smiling in an odd way. "If not c-countered correctly, then it would l-leave very large and v-very painful hemorrhoids."

At that Scabbers appeared to squeak even louder in fear as if the rodent could comprehend its impending treatment. In turn, Ron looked as if someone had just announced the cancelation of Quidditch for the whole year.

Harry covered Hedwig's eyes, not wanting her to witness the next spell. He felt sorry for Ron's rat and hoped the professor would not choose his owl any time soon - that spell really did look painful.

Poor Scabbers.

o-O-o

"C-class dismiss," Quirrell told them. "A-and Mr. Weasley, you can c-come back for your rat a-after I have observe it for a-any side effects."

The boy nodded his head despondently as Potter patted his shoulder in comfort.

When the last of the students left, Quirrell quickly waved his wand to lock and seal the whole room. He didn't know what his Master wanted with a rat of all creatures, but he would follow those orders no matter how confusing they may seemed to be. Already, he could feel his Master stirring for control, and Quirrell allowed himself to fall into a deep sleep as his Master took over.

Once again, Voldemort looked through his servant's eyes, allowing them to glow the familiar crimson this time. Seeing his prey on the table, he leisurely approached it. He gazed down at the stunned rat with a disgusted twist of his lips. Even as a rat, Pettigrew was a wretched sight. He had no respect for cowardice, but the weak wizard still had his uses. Without further ado, his wand slashed down on the animal, the spell hitting its target and working instantly.

What was once a rat, Peter Pettigrew's short and lumpy form now appeared, and Voldemort quickly released the stunning spell. His servant awoke with a jolt as if electrified. The man looked around in a disoriented daze, completely at a loss to his predicament. A few seconds later, Pettigrew attempted to sit up, but the wizard only managed to fall off the table head first.

The Dark Lord stood there, now having second thoughts about using the other wizard.

"Wha-what's going on?" Pettigrew asked, rubbing his head stupidly.

Annoyance now distinctly attached to his mood, Voldemort called the man to his attention. "Wormtail..."

Pettigrew gazed up in surprise and blinked in bewilderment at the DADA professor. It was only when the man stared into his red eyes that recognition hit him. "M-my Lord?"

"Ah, so you still remember your master."

At that revelation, Pettigrew looked as if someone was choking him. "Forgive me! Forgive me, Master!" his servant immediately bowed over, knees and hands splayed out. "I remain your loyal servant!"

"By hiding away as a rat?" he conjured a high back chair and sat down, enjoying Pettigrew's sniveling attempts of begging. "I'm sorely disappointed in you, Wormtail."

"I - I was waiting for your return!" Pettigrew wailed, crawling forward in desperation. "Waiting for news of your whereabouts and -"

"Enough."

That one word drew a whimper from the man, silencing Pettigrew into nervous shaking. As much as he relished the fear, Voldemort had already been through this once, and it grew tiresome very quickly.

"Were it not for your usefulness, you would be dead long ago."

Relief appeared to spill from the man as he bowed again. "Thank you, Master, thank you. I will do my best to serve you as your devoted follower."

"Then you'll be glad to know that I have work for you, Wormtail," he said, smirking at the man's complete subservience.

At that, Pettigrew looked up in obvious worry but waited for his instructions.

"In your animagus form, you shall follow and keep watch over Severus and Dumbledore," he reclined back in his seat, mulling over his plans once more. "And only when I summon you through the dark mark, will you report their activities to me. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Master," the wizard's head was nodding furiously in compliance before hesitation slowly bubbled up to the surface. "But - but what about Harry Potter, my Lord?"

His eyes narrowed at that. "You do not need to concern yourself with the boy," he said in a dangerous hiss. Voldemort would not allow anyone else to involve themselves with Potter because the boy would be his alone to deal with. Until then, Harry Potter would remain unharmed.

Pettigrew cowered at his tone. "Y-yes, Master."

He then gave a few more orders to the other wizard and threatened him should the man be discovered in any way. As their time was ending, they both prepared themselves to return to their respective roles should the Weasley boy come knocking to retrieve his pet.

"And Wormtail," Voldemort stopped the wizard before he could revert back to his animagus form.

"My Lord?"

"You seem to have forgotten something."

"I have?" Pettigrew's eyes squinted almost shut in confusion, not understanding his statement.

Voldemort gave his servant a very fierce smile, eliciting another whimper from the man. "My _wand_, Wormtail."

It was finally time for him to be reunited with his yew wand.

o-O-o

"Nutter Bar," Harry whispered to the Portrait of the Fat Lady.

She woke up with a start and looked down for the student who dared to disturb her sleep. Confusion settled on her brows as she searched for the culprit but saw absolutely no one at all. Well, the Fat Lady was positive she had heard the password, so with a shrug of her shoulders she opened the entrance to the Gryffindor dormitory.

Harry silently stepped inside before the portrait could close in the next moment. Walking through the empty common room, he quickly made it to his room. The only other occupant there was Ron, who was snoring quite loudly that he didn't need to worry about waking the other boy up.

Carefully, he took off the invisibility cloak draped over his body and got into bed. After closing the curtains, Harry laid there and stared contentedly in the dark while still holding onto the cloak.

For the past three nights, he had been using his new gift to explore Hogwarts. It didn't really matter where Harry went in the castle because he was free to go anywhere. From old storage rooms to unused corridors, nothing was off limits. Well, except for the third floor corridor, but he didn't mind it much since the three headed dog was not something any sane person would want to go near.

Still, the ability to walk through the castle at night with no one to judge or stare at him was liberating. It provided a different kind of freedom than that of flying - it gave him anonymity. As long as he was under the cloak, then Harry was able to hide and do things he wouldn't normally do without anyone finding out.

If only he had something like this when he was running away from Dudley and his gang.

But the invisibility cloak was more than just a tool. It had belonged to his father, and that alone was worth more than all the gold in his vault. Harry never had anything of value growing up nor any objects bequeathed to him by his parents. To finally be holding something tangible of theirs, knowing that his father had once held it too... Harry realised this was the closest he would ever be to them; that this was the only connection he had left of his parents.

He closed his eyes and held the cloak to his chest, trying to imagine how his father's warmth would feel, as if it was imprinted on the cloak itself. Maybe this way, he could pretend they weren't dead and he wasn't alone. It was a meager substitution, but lying to himself had never been that hard.

After a while, Harry decided to grab his wand. "_Lumos_," he said, having the sudden need to see the cloak one last time before sleep.

The fabric shimmered in the artificial light, beautiful as it cascaded down in ripples from where he grasped it. The cloak was mesmerising as he stared at it, and it would have gone on for the rest of the night if he didn't notice the glint near the edge of the fabric. His eyes narrowed in concentration, trying to identify what it was as he brought his wand closer.

The glint in actuality was some kind of symbol, sewn in a different coloured thread than the rest of the cloak. It was in the shape of a triangle with a circle inscribed inside, and running down the middle of both shapes was a line. His finger grazed over the unknown symbol, memorising its every line.

What was this?

o-O-o

The clearing in the forest was deserted of any sounds that would had otherwise been full of creatures. The trees were tall and thick, providing a barrier of privacy, and the glow from the moon extinguished the need for any other light.

The area was the perfect location to perform the ritual since it was far from any human settlements and had been warded against magical detection. With the turban unbind, Voldemort looked upon the runes on the ground. It formed into a rune circle that expanded a few meters wide as Ravenclaw's Diadem laid innocently in the center. In addition, three unconscious wizards were bound and placed within the circle's edge.

The three male wizards would be used to fuel the ritual. Their magic and life force would aid in creating a new body for him. Of course, they were all muggleborns and not of any high standings so he doubted they would be missed. However, this ritual alone was not enough to absorb his Horcrux.

Remorse was the essential emotion required to mend the soul. It was said that only through penitence from the act of murder could one _attempt_ to merge the pieces of the soul back. Voldemort had almost snorted at the idea when he first read about it.

An Egyptian wizard from centuries ago had invented this ritual. Like himself, the wizard had dabbled with soul magic and experimented on the limits of its boundaries. With the help of the ritual, remorse for the murder itself was not needed but for the act of splitting one's own soul. Only through regret in the creation of a Horcrux could the ritual work. If repentance was like a thread used to bind the soul pieces, then the ritual was the needle used to sew it all together.

Although this ritual could successfully combine his soul shards, there was still a chance - a very _high_ chance - that he could die from the pain alone. It had been agonizing and torturous when he ripped his soul apart, so he could only imagine what it would be like to merge them. Still, he was determined to go through with this and not submit to the pain. In a way, he found all of this ironic and darkly humorous. Voldemort had spent all his life building his strength and trying to prevent his mortality. Yet here he was, risking everything so he could absorb a fragment of his soul back.

He could still easily take the Philosopher's Stone. Regain his body that way with no uncertainty or complications. It would all be so easy for him to do, but then he would remember that lone soul piece floating in limbo. Even if his Horcruxes were all safe at the moment, he couldn't forget how it felt for that one piece to be so isolated from everything - to suffer, due to his actions.

"Master, the ritual is ready," Quirrell voiced out, checking the time with a tempus spell. It was the eve of the new year.

Voldemort collected his stray thoughts, needing his concentration. "Step inside the circle, Quirrell, and the rest will begin."

When they were situated inside, Voldemort began to chant a series of soft words, a forgotten language once spoken by sorcerers of old. Gradually, the rune circle started to glow, and the air filled with the currents of wild energy. It was then that Voldemort felt himself being pulled from Quirrell's body and out towards the diadem. Suddenly, pain was all he knew.

It was an avalanche of pain, crushing him from all sides and giving him no chance for recovery. He knew no other state of existence, leaving only thoughts of the agony for him to focus on. But worst of all, it made him _wished_ for death - to die so the pain could end. Voldemort didn't know if he could possibly endure it for any longer, never feeling more vulnerable as he did in that moment.

It seemed to continue on for hours, turning everything into a mesh of obscurity. Only when the pain became more localised did he discover it lessening in intensity. At an achingly slow beat, the magic started to ease out and thinned to a trickle before dieing down completely.

The first thing he noticed was the sound of his breathing. It came out in harsh gasps, unfamiliar with the need for air. His other senses soon came forward, and he found himself kneeling on the ground, pleasantly shocked that there was no more accompanying pain.

Finally, his naked form rose from the center of the rune circle, ignoring the unblemished diadem near his feet. Just as another time before, he gazed in amazement at his hands and then down his body, admiring the lean muscles and firm legs. He then touched his face, discovering his father's features there once more. And without looking, he knew his eyes had kept its dark crimson colour.

Voldemort could once again feel his magic coursing through his new body, sensing the strength and power residing within. It flowed smoothly, no longer bundled tightly or squeezed uncomfortably. Yet something was missing, not quite perfectly settled.

His soul was still incomplete.

Voldemort placed a hand over his beating heart. Strange, he had never felt a yearning to reunite with his Horcruxes before, but now that he had merged with one, it left a raw and hungry need to seek them out and... be whole again. Closing his eyes, he tried to center himself. He would think about this sensation at another time; for now, he had other things to do. Once he felt stabled enough, Voldemort looked out at his surroundings.

The three wizards he sacrificed were nothing more than withered husks, their corpse so dried up that it looked like it would turn to dust with just a touch. The rune circle was now just scorched marks on the ground, as if a simple flame spell had left it there.

Summoning his yew wand, he casually conjured a robe over himself and walked over to the immobile form of his servant. Voldemort nudged the man's cheek with his foot, causing a small groan to echo out into the clearing. He smirked at the sound, impressed with his servant's luck.

"Still alive, Quirrell?" he asked in mocked surprise. The wizard could still serve him yet.

TBC

A/N: In case anyone was wondering, Harry never found the Mirror of Erised because Dumbledore had moved it ahead of schedule.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Harry Potter & its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

o-O-o

"Lucius, do you have to return to Britain now?" his wife asked in disappointment, following him into the sitting room. "There's only a few days left until Draco has to go back to Hogwarts. Can't you postpone it till then?"

He held back a sigh, more than reluctant to ruin his family's holiday in France by leaving them at the last minute. Unfortunately, he didn't have much of a choice in the matter. "This is out of my hands, Narcissa," Lucius explained again as he donned his cloak, preparing for the floo travel. "My presence is needed, and it's urgent that I handle this business immediately."

The urgency was one that started two nights ago when he felt a growing warmth on his forearm; specifically, from the Dark Mark. After all these years, the last thing he expected to see was the reappearance of his mark. The skull and snake tattoo was now jet black in colour, just like it was on the day he first received it.

Thus, it was imperative for him to be in Britain at once and inquire his associates on any news of the Dark Lord' return. If his Lord was truly back, then it would change everything - for his family and their society. Of course, Lucius had yet to mention any of this to his wife since he didn't want to cause her any unnecessary worry.

Narcissa turned away from him, clearly giving him the cold shoulder this time. "Fine then. We'll just stay here and enjoy ourselves, so you're free to do all the business you want."

Ah, perhaps it was almost that time of the month again when she was being difficult. Usually, Narcissa was quite agreeable to his abrupt dealings and very tolerable towards his _other_ activities. Lucius never told her how much he appreciated her compliance in certain aspects of their marriage, though he assumed it had been implied. Looking at her stiff back, Lucius raised his hand, wanting to touch her arm in comfort. But he pulled back in hesitation a second later. No, he had more important things to consider right now.

Lucius turned and walked towards the hearth. Stepping inside, he stared at her one last time. "I hope you'll tell our son to behave himself while I'm gone," he said before tossing in the floo powder. Narcissa whirled around, eyes ablaze and mouth already opened in retort. However, the green flames swept him away before he could hear her response, and Lucius was certain it was not of the flattering kind.

After a minute of dizzying spins in the floo, he finally stepped out into a lavish living room. Lucius brushed the soot from his shoulders, the only sign of his travel and glanced around.

A distinct crack sounded, and his house-elf appeared before him. The creature wrung its hand, staring up at him with wide eyes. "Master Malfoy is early he is. Petsy have to tell master at once. There is som- eep!"

The elf's head was smacked by his cane, silencing the creature instantly. He was in no mood to hear its squeaky voice at the moment. "Prepare the tea and bring it to my study," Lucius ordered as he strolled out of the room.

Walking through the hallways of Malfoy Manor eventually eased the stress from his shoulders, allowing him to rest in familiar surroundings. Portraits of his ancestors were scattered across the walls. They were the highest standing of elegance and were always available to offer advice. Although, his wife considered those advice to be criticism than any real words of wisdom. Besides for that, many other artifacts filled the manor, gathered from all around the magical world - even some of rare origins. It brought him a certain amount of pride to call this his home.

Finally reaching his study, he unlocked the oak door and entered... only to see a man sitting behind his desk. Lucius swiftly pulled out his wand, about to demand who the wizard was, but his wand was instantly knocked out of his hand by a magical force, landing far out of his reach on the other side of the room. Anger and panic rose within him, but he tried to crush them down. This was not the time to be overwhelmed by such emotions because he had to find a way out of this situation and kill the bast-

"Hello, Lucius."

The smooth and dark baritone of the voice gave him pause before he quickly became insulted by the use of his first name. Lucius observed the man as he tried to inconspicuously edge toward the door. Raven locks framed the handsome face that spoke of pureblood heritage and a charming smile fit for the political arena. Yet behind the smile, there was the promise of malicious cruelty. However, it wasn't until Lucius peered into the eyes - the blood red eyes - that he knew without a doubt who this man was.

Lord Voldemort.

He found his mouth to be dry suddenly while the air in his lungs seemed to be compressed tightly. The Dark Lord appeared quite at home, lounging in his chair and drinking his favourite wine. And right in his lord's hands was the item Lucius had been entrusted to keep safe all these years: The Diary.

The door to his study closed without any gesture from his lord, and the sound of the click as it locked was more ominous than any uttered curse. The Dark Lord stood up gracefully then, nearly startling him at the unexpected movement. The other wizard caressed the cover of the diary with one hand almost fondly before placing it back on the desk.

It was possibly the most idiotic thing he'd ever done, standing there in a numb trance while his lord walked towards him. He could do nothing but watch and hold in the shiver as the Dark Lord's form radiated pure power.

"Why so stunned, Lucius?" the Dark Lord drawled, stalking closer. "Surely, you out of all my followers still believed in my return."

His voice seemed to have deserted him because he couldn't draw any strength to speak a single word at this point. It was as if his mind had refused to process the actuality of the Dark Lord being in his study of all places.

It was then that the Dark Lord withdrew his wand, the sight even deadlier. "Or perhaps years of my absence have softened that resolve of yours?"

Completely filled with dread, he was about to answer his lord, but the other wizard continued on in the next moment, not yet finished.

"Well, that hardly matters now," his lord added with a cold smirk, "for you shall be reminded of your oath."

The Dark Lord now stood a little more than an arm's reach from him. The red eyes bore into his, trapping him within its depth. He was falling deeply under the gaze and uncertain if he could ever escape it. Clearly as the winter morning, he knew there was only one choice left for him.

Lucius placed his right fist over his heart and bowed deeply. "My Lord," his voice was steady, but the slight quaver could still be identified by an experienced ear. Of course, the Dark Lord was more than adept at reading him for as long as he could remember. But there was something he'd forgotten also. Forgotten how the ties to one's lord were not so easily broken or abandon.

Not even in death.

o-O-o

The growl from the three-headed dog reverberated all the way to his feet as they entered the room. Quirrell hid the grimace from his face as Hagrid cooed at the beast. Maybe this was not such a good idea after all.

"Thanks for helpin' me carry Fluffy's food, Professor Quirrell," the half-giant said, dropping the shovel and wheel barrel to the side.

"Oh, it is n-no trouble at all, H-hagrid," Quirrell said as he waved his wand to lower the crates of meat on the ground. "I h-have the time since t-the house-elves are already t-taking care of the troll."

"Yeah, very strange that. The house-elves hate goin' anywhere near Fluffy, but they have no trouble at all with that troll of yours."

The beast barked ferociously, fur standing on end with eyes glowing in cold hunger and fangs sharp as daggers. Truly not an animal to trifle with lightly. And the oaf wondered why the elves wouldn't go near the three-headed dog. At least the troll was too thick to recognise the little creatures as a potential meal.

"Don' worry, Professor," Hagrid reassured, seeing the look he was giving the beast. "Fluffy is very well behave when it's feedin' time."

The half-giant then threw a crate of meat at the animal, and the three heads rushed in, fighting over the slabs of meat. They were quite involved with their meal, tearing and chomping away, but their eyes remained on tracking his movements. Always ready to pounce if he ever took a step closer.

Despite his master's order to wait for now, he still wanted to steal the stone and prove to the Dark Lord his worth as a wizard. So far, Quirrell hadn't found a way to pass the three-headed dog yet, since the beast was highly resistant to any magical attacks. Efforts to trick the half-giant into revealing a method had been useless, and all he got for his trouble was an anecdote of how all magical creatures were just misunderstood and completely harmless.

"You're lookin' a little pale and thin there, Professor," Hagrid mentioned, scratching his scruffy beard speculatively. "Maybe Madam Pomfrey can check on yeh?"

"Oh, I'm just re-recovering from a b-bad cold," he told the groundskeeper. "N-nothing I can't handle."

Unfortunately, he was still weak from his master's possession, and it would take a few more weeks to regain his magical strength. In truth, Quirrell was quite glad to finally have his body back and not have to worry about his health. Still, that didn't change the fact that aiding in his master's return to full power was his proudest achievement to date.

"That's good to hear," Hagrid said, tossing another meaty piece to the left head. "Hm, I wonder why Professor Dumbledore wants us to check on the protections everyday now. Everything looks fine to me."

"It's m-most likely the Headmaster b-being cautious incase a-anything happened."

No, that wasn't exactly it. Dumbledore knew or at least suspected the Dark Lord to have somehow returned. That's why the headmaster was so concerned over the stone. It didn't take much to realise who might have revealed that little information. Even he could plainly see the increased agitation in the potions master's demeanor after the holidays, and Quirrell was certain it had more to do than just teaching students.

"Yeah, that's probably it," the groundskeeper agreed before picking up the shovel. "Well, time to clean up their mess." With shovel in one hand and a wheel barrel in the other, Hagrid moved to the other side of the room to the large pile of...

Apparently, their excrements were quite resistant to magic also.

Once again, his eyes landed on the trap door. If only he could subdue the beast fast enough to get through the door, then everything after that would be easy. Quirrell was certain he could overcome the other protections in place and reach the stone with no trouble. Maybe when the chance presented itself, he wou-

A large shadow suddenly fell over him, and he glimpsed up to see white fangs.

"Professor, watch out!" the half-giant yelled.

In one quick swoop, the jaws closed down in a loud snap. With reflexes he didn't know he possessed, Quirrell dove to the side, barely landing far enough away as it failed to bite him in half. Sprawled on the floor in an almost stunned stupor, Quirrell swiftly took stock of his limbs. Relief washed over him as everything appeared to be intact... except, it felt like something was missing.

"Bad Fluffy! Let go of Professor Quirrell's turban right now!"

He touched his head in realisation and gaped widely. His bald head was now gleaming brightly and proudly in the lowly lit room. It was also slathered in saliva.

Hagrid pulled him to his feet. "Sorry 'bout that, Professor Quirrell. Fluffy was just playin', that's all."

_Playing_? Hagrid must truly be stupid or blind to not see his pet's vicious appetite for human flesh.

"It's alright, I'll get it back for yeh," the groundskeeper said, approaching the dog again with loud cooing sounds.

No, he was wrong. The half-giant was completely mental and shouldn't be allowed anywhere near sane people.

Eventually, his turban was wrestled free from one of its slobbering jaws. He should have been upset with the beast because his favourite turban was now ruined. But only one thought ran through his mind as Quirrell wiped the drool off his head: He really should listen to his master.

o-O-o

His fist clenched tightly. They were all laughing.

Every one of his house mates were sitting in the Gryffindor common room and laughing at Neville. Harry avoided their smiling faces and concentrated on the other boy instead. Neville was on the verge of tears as he tried to navigate through the room under the Leg-Locker Curse. He saw Ron frowning in disapproval, not at Neville but what had been done to him.

Hermoine was the only one to get up and help Neville with the curse before ushering the boy into a little corner of the room. Her attempts at consolation were more on the line of reprimands for the culprits than any real comfort. The expression on Neville's face suggested he didn't want to involve himself any further with Malfoy by reporting him.

Harry hated bullying. He could never stand it when Dudley and his group of friends would single him out. The taunting and physical intimidation always showed how powerless he was to stop them. He had never understood why they liked to hurt other people or rejoice in another person's misfortune. But sometimes, just sometimes, he wished for them to feel what it was like to be teased and pushed into a corner. And sometimes, he wanted them to know how it felt to be _helpless_.

Anger burned in his chest all of a sudden.

Harry breathed out slowly, trying to reign in his running emotions before glancing back at his friend. The red head still looked like he wanted to do something but was unable to decide exactly what.

"Here, Ron," he said, handling him a chocolate frog box from his bag, "you can give this to Neville - help cheer him up."

"Huh? Why can't you do it yourself?" his friend asked, although he still took the box. "We can both go over there."

Harry shook his head. "Can't," he lied, needing to be elsewhere in order to calm down, "I just remember something that I have to ask Professor Flitwick about."

He was useless when it came to deceiving people and that was such an obvious excuse if he'd ever heard one. Luckily, Ron didn't question it, probably because the red head had already made up his mind about walking over there.

"Well, if you're sure..."

"Positive," he answered with a reassuring smile. "Go on, Ron. I'll be back later."

"All right, Harry," Ron stood up in determination, "but I'll still tell Neville this is from you."

He waved his friend away in agreement before quickly grabbing his bag. In the next moment, Harry was out of the common room and walking down the corridors. There really wasn't any destination in mind, only the desire to be away from everyone else for awhile. Other students were mingling around the castle, and Harry tried to ignore their quiet whispers as he passed them.

Despite the months he'd been here, there were still some people in awe with him as the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry tried not to let it bother him too much since he was used to the staring and whispering from his neighbors in Privet Drive. If there was one thing the Dursleys were good at, it was spreading rumours of him being a deranged delinquent. At least no one here was giving him any reproachful looks.

His aimless stroll eventually took him to an empty corridor, one that lead to a tower overlooking the lake. Deciding that this was the best place for some solitude, he climbed the stairs. Lately, his emotions were jumping all over the place, and he was having trouble just sorting them out; he could be bored one second and in the next, he would be excited for no reason at all. Hopefully, he was just going through some phase that would soon pass.

Opening the door, sunlight was the first thing he noticed, bathing a section of the tower in warm colours. From the amount of dust, no one had been in here for a long time. There weren't that many furniture besides for a sofa and low table in the center, probably having seen better days. What drew him forward though were the large windows around most of the stone walls.

Walking closer, the view almost took his breath away. Harry stared at the deep forest and high mountains stretching out into the horizon. The natural beauty of the sparkling lake as it reflected the sun's rays and the serene blue of the sky were truly magnificent. Harry gradually relaxed, content with watching the clouds float by and letting his mind wander. For the first time in days, he felt at peace with himself.

"You remind me of him."

His heart jumped to his throat in surprise as he twisted around at the voice. A female ghost with waist-length hair and clothed in a long cloak stared at him. It was strange seeing a ghost right now since they have made themselves quite scarce in the last few months. Even Sir Nicholas was hardly seen around the Gryffindor tower anymore.

He shook himself from his thoughts as her words finally registered. "Excuse me?"

She drifted closer, her figure so translucent that he could see the beam of dust through her. "He once stood there as you do now, looking out into the vast skies."

"Uh..." Harry was at a loss for words with that information, not to mention her abrupt appearance. Feeling particularly befuddled at the moment, his next response was, "Who stood here?"

The ghost either didn't sense his confusion or had chosen to ignore it entirely because she continued on. "He would often come to this tower... always by himself," she was staring off into the lake, a forlorn expression flitted through her face before becoming impassive again. "Always alone."

"I'm sorry, but I don't know who you're talking about," he said, trying to move away from her. Really, Harry just wanted some time to himself, not have a conversation with a ghost that was starting to weird him out.

The ghost turned to him, her head tilted as she regarded him. "You look just like him," she whispered. "He was so strong... so handsome."

Harry really didn't know how to reply to that. His aunt always told him he looked like a scrawny ruffian that was picked up from the streets. Then again, Aunt Petunia didn't really help by giving him Dudley's cast offs.

"And he seemed so kind," she went on with a sigh, "but I was wrong."

"Oh," he shifted awkwardly, feeling way out of his element in this situation.

"I wonder... will you become like him?"

Unexpectedly, he was irked by her assumptions of his character. The ghost just met him, and she was already judging him. "Excuse me, but who is _he_?" Harry asked roughly, more than frustrated with the topic now. Though a small part of him was curious about this person she was comparing him to.

Her pale eyes met his before traveling up to his forehead. She then floated away before Harry could question her any further. The ghost was barely visible now as she faded from the tower, but her voice echoed loud and clear.

"He is the one who gave you that scar."

o-O-o

The walls of the cave exploded, large chunks falling into the water as his rage went unabated. The inferi kept their distance, watching him from afar with only their eyes above the water's surface. Even without a mind, they were sentient enough to know him as their creator, and the one powerful enough to end their existence.

Yet a lone inferius, once a female wizard, came crawling onto the island. The thing was mostly gray skin over bones, with eyes reflecting only empty black holes. It stretched a hand towards him, as if begging for salvation. Still consumed with anger, Voldemort simply flicked his wand. Red hot light shot out, melting the inferius slowly from the inside out until it was nothing more than a puddle of decay.

He stopped his rampage soon after and stood in rigid silence, trying to calm his thoughts. It wouldn't do to lose his temper now when he'd already been through this once. Last time, he assumed Potter had somehow taken his Locket from the cave. Apparently, it was stolen long before then.

R.A.B.

He stared at the initials until his mind could call up a name. One that he hadn't thought of in years: Regulus. That particular wizard was one he had overlooked as just another of his useless followers... but he was wrong. Voldemort glared again at the words that infuriated him the most.

_I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can._

The paper then ignited into flames, turning to ashes in his hands a moment later. His Locket destroyed? No, that was not true. This time, fortunately, he had learned how to feel the connection to his soul pieces despite the long physical distance. If Voldemort concentrated with enough focus and magic, he could still sense his Horcrux somewhere out there.

It was still alive.

o-O-o

Severus swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp. The sound of chattering in the restaurant was a welcomed distraction from the usual annoyance he found it to be. He was sitting at a table in the back of the room, having only been here a couple times before. It was a small establishment, located in Diagon Alley and cleaner than the Leaky Cauldron; that alone was good enough for him.

In these past few weeks, he had been completely on edged. Seeing the Dark Mark slowly regain its colour on his forearm nearly made his heart stop. Shock and fear dominated his senses as he refused to accept the evidence in front of him. Severus didn't know how long it took before any measure of logic came back, but he'd quickly gone to find Dumbledore soon afterwards.

The Headmaster had taken the news better than he thought with only the slight narrowing of the eyes. Immediately, they had rushed down to check on the stone, both wondering if the protections were broken. To their astonishment and relief, the stone was still safe, but then the real problem became apparent. Lord Voldemort had somehow returned.

The Dark Lord was back without the aid of the stone; after a decade of his disappearance, he was finally back. It was just a waiting game for him now. Waiting for the familiar burn from the mark to call and trap him again. Severus was not certain if he was prepared for his role as a spy - to bow and serve a wizard he no longer believed in. But he would do that and more. All because of Lily.

"I hope you weren't waiting too long."

He berated himself for being inattentive and looked up to see the tall figure of Lucius Malfoy. The wizard appeared as regal as usual, dressed in opulent back robes with his cane in hand. Yet there was a dwindling exhaustion behind the man's stance that was hardly noticeable.

"Just long enough to finish a glass of fire whiskey," Severus eventually replied, raising the empty glass for the other wizard to see.

"Really, Severus, fire whiskey? Out of all the drinks you can order, you have to choose such a plebeian one," Lucius huffed in exasperation.

He smirked at his friend's comment. "Don't worry, I already ordered you a glass of Balthazar's Burgundy instead."

Lucius had always been picky about his drinks. Actually, the man was quite selective with just about everything, including the type of leather his boots should be made out of. The overly privileged certainly were of a different mind frame, somewhere along the lines of mentally loose and thoroughly spoiled.

A waiter was signaled over to refill his drink and pour a glass for the Malfoy patriarch. Once the server left, he subtly casted a privacy charm around them. It was proof to how much Lucius was accustomed to his cautionary habit when the man gave no outward reaction to the spell.

"How are you?" Severus asked. "You seem to have been quite busy as of late." Busy was putting it lightly. He sent an owl to the other man a few days after the Dark Mark's reappearance, and only now was Lucius able to see him.

"I admit, business has kept me occupied more than I would have liked."

"Oh? Then is it the kind of business that will interest me?" This was what he wanted to inquire Lucius about. He had already asked the other Death Eaters about any possible news of the Dark Lord. Unfortunately, they had no information at all - just clueless and anxious wizards anticipating to be summoned by their master.

"Of course, it will interest you," Lucius scoffed, eyes almost rolling at his veiled question. A frown then marred the man's features. "Your mark has returned."

That statement conveyed the very core of the matter - the reason why they were both here. It seemed his friend did not want to dawdle around the subject this time.

"The same as yours I believe," Severus admitted.

Lucius stared into his drink, appearing to mull over his response. "I have questioned some of our past associates concerning this recent 'change', and they have all answered the same: Their marks have darkened, but there remains no word of the Dark Lord as of yet."

"You mean none of them have heard a single whisper or a sign of his presence?"

The other wizard sighed in resignation. "I know as much as you do, Severus."

Something didn't feel right. He didn't know what to expect out of this discussion, but suspicion was not it. Out of all the Death Eaters, Lucius was the most likely one to be summoned. If the other wizard knew nothing, then who else could the Dark Lord call upon?

Severus took another sip, barely tasting the whiskey now. "Do you believe he is back?"

"I don't know what to believe, but it is a possibility," his friend's tone was uncertain. "What about that old fool? Does Dumbledore suspect anything amiss so far?"

"Of course not," the lie easily flowed out.

"Hopefully, he will stay oblivious."

His head nodded in agreement even though his mind protested otherwise. "What are your plans now?" he asked instead. "You must have prepared something since this all began."

"Some of my plans have changed," Lucius said vaguely, "but I won't be doing much of anything yet until the need arises."

"I see," disappointment dropped heavily in his stomach at the ambiguous reply. Suddenly, he found it too tense to continue on with the conversation.

They sat in quiet contemplation then. The silence separating them more than any real distance could.

Lucius finished his glass of wine and stood up, placing a few galleons on the table to pay for their drinks. "I apologise for cutting this short, Severus, but I have another engagement to attend to."

A moment's breath was all he had to act before it was too late.

"Lucius," Severus grabbed his friend's forearm before the wizard could take another step - right above the Dark Mark. "Has _he_ contacted you?"

The Malfoy patriarch was still for a moment, something fragile seemed to be hanging between them now. "I still wait for his return, Severus," the wizard whispered before gently prying his hand away. Without another word, Lucius walked out of the restaurant.

He stared at his hand, feeling a sense of lost for some odd reason. The other wizard's reluctance to reveal anything was disconcerting, but it was not what troubled him the most.

Through out their discussion, not once did Lucius look him in the eyes.

o-O-o

This was a muggle neighborhood. This was the place where his Locket was hidden.

Voldemort would have raged at the indignity of it all if he didn't sense the wards layered before him, concealing a wizard's home. Only through the connection with his Horcrux was he able to locate its hiding place at all. Incidentally, this was also the old hide-out for the Order of the Phoenix that Yaxley discovered, and it was in his favour that the Fidelius Charm was not casted this time.

Going through the wards was child's play, and the door opened easily under his magic, creaking loudly as it slowly revealed a darkened hallway. The peeling wallpaper and cobwebs attested to the years of disrepair, but they were nothing compared to the old musty smell that greeted him. Obviously, no one had bothered to clean the place up.

Not sensing any enchantments that would hinder him further, Voldemort quickly strode through the hallway, passing an empty portrait, and up the stairs to the first landing, following the connection to his locket. He soon entered into what seemed to be the drawing room, and at once, his eyes zeroed in on the glass case at the far wall. His Horcrux was calling out to him as clear as ever.

He opened the glass case, ignoring the other items strewn inside and reached for his locket. The Horcrux hummed pleasantly in his hand as he picked it up, evidently happy to be reunited with him. It was honestly a relief to discover his soul piece in perfect condition and completely unharmed despite its theft.

"Wizard does not belong here."

Voldemort paused slightly before looking over his shoulder to see a lowly house-elf. His eyes narrowed at the creature, ignoring its insolence for now. The thing should be old beyond its uses, judging by the many folds of skin and white hair peaking out of its ear. However, on closer inspection, there was a air of familiarity around the thing... it was then that he recognised the elf. It was the elf he used to test his potion on - the one he left to die in the cave: Regulus' house-elf. Suddenly, it all made sense.

"Tell me, elf," he sneered, raising the locket up. "Did your master order you to take this?"

A strangled sound of surprise slipped out from the creature once its eyes rested on the Horcrux. "You can not have that!" the elf wailed, stepping closer in an attempt to seize the locket.

"_Crucio_."

The creature dropped to the floor, writhing uncontrollably as it screamed in pain. After a few seconds, he canceled the spell, already revolted by the sight.

"You were saying?" Voldemort asked again as he placed the Horcrux in the pocket of his robe.

The elf laid on the ground for a long while, breathing heavily before attempting to stand back up, though its limbs were still trembling from the curse. "Kreacher must destroy it," the thing groaned out. "Master Regulus told Kreacher to destroy it."

His eyes took on a harsh gleam as the urge to kill the elf heightened. "Now, why shall I allow you to destroy what is mine?"

The elf froze at his claim. Voldemort could literally see when the meaning sunk in for the creature just as the tremors in its body renewed in intensity. "_You_ -," the elf spat, a finger pointed accusingly in his direction. "You made Kreacher drink the nasty potion!"

The smirk that surfaced would be considered malevolently smug if his followers saw it. "Figured that out on your own, did you?"

The creature glared at him and straightened its back stubbornly. "Wizard can not have the locket. Give it back to Kreacher."

In response to that, the red colour of the Cruciatus Curse was once again flung at the elf. Instead of taking the curse, the creature jumped away and snapped its fingers, a triumphant light entering its eyes.

The sound of piano keys caught his attention, and he peered to the side to see a large piano hurl towards him through the air. Voldemort slashed his wand vertically, cutting the piano directly down the middle. The two half pieces flying passed him, almost brushing his shoulders and landing with a resounding crash through the walls behind him.

Before the creature could snapped its fingers again, a sickly coloured curse flew from his wand, managing to strike the elf. The thing cried out in agony as all the skin from its hands peeled off, revealing raw flesh. Taking advantage of the pain, Voldemort shot the Killing Curse. Just as the green light was about to hit, the elf disapparated from the spot, leaving the spell to smash to the floor.

He sneered at its cowardice, expecting nothing less from such a creature. Their magic was weak and nothing compared to a wizard's, so of course it would run away. Although it aggravated him to new levels to know the elf had escaped from him. Not wanting to waste anymore time over a house-elf, he decided to take his leave. Voldemort walked down the stairs until he reached the dark hallway. It was then that he felt a slight breeze over his head. Glancing up, he saw the cause.

Dozens of kitchen knives and forks were floating in the air - all pointed towards him. A precarious glint was all the warning it gave before they all rushed down on him. He dodged two that were the closest and transfigured the rest into bubbles, which then floated away harmlessly. The encounter left him mostly unscathed except for the edge of his sleeves that were torn.

Voldemort scanned the hallway, deeply shocked at the elf's tenacity and impudence to battle him. House-elves should be inferior and subservient to wizards in every way, but this one elf had the gall to act otherwise. He tried to feel the elf's magic, but found that he was unable to sense it.

A loud crack sounded behind him. "Give it back!" the elf yelled, throwing a pot of boiling water in his direction.

Before the liquid could splash him, he manipulated the water to evaporate into warm steam, and using that as cover, casted another dark curse. The spell managed to hit the elf in the chest, breaking a few of its ribs. Another scream of misery, and it annoyingly popped away once more. Voldemort stood calmly, preparing himself for its next attack and adamant on not being caught off guard. Nothing occurred for a long time as he waited, silently taking in every shift of the shadows incase it was the creature.

The familiar crack came from above, and the elf was on his back, a frying pan in one hand as it aimed for his head. A blast of magic sent the creature flying across the hallway. He swiftly conjured a long sword, sharp enough to slice through bone and banished it towards the elf. It struck true. The sword pierced through the elf's shoulder, embedding it to the floor and preventing it from disappearing again.

Voldemort took his time in approaching the house-elf, murder spilling from his aura, so potent that it would have suffocated a person's senses. He viewed the creature at his feet, discovering that it was still alive but too critically injured to move in any form.

"How dare you - a mere house-elf - attack me," he said with a certain degree of malice rarely heard even from his enemies.

Not only that, but the creature had also stolen his locket from the cave. And if he understood correctly, it had been attempting to destroy his Horcrux since then. Hard to believe that all of this was committed on the orders of a dead man. Perhaps he had underestimated Regulus in his determination to defy him.

A harsh cough met his statement before the elf could even attempt to speak.

"Kr-kreacher dare... because Kreacher is... a loyal elf... of the H-house... of Black..." the thing gasped out, blood most likely filling its lung now. The round eyes were drenched in pain, seeming to stare past him somewhere.

Voldemort turned his head slightly to the stairs, searching for what it was looking at. A cold smile slowly reached his lips. "Yes, you certainly are," he murmured, his gaze returning to the elf, "and for that loyalty you shall be rewarded."

Kreacher shivered, feeling the sadistic glee behind his words.

A few moments later, he stood immaculately in his clean robes, as if it hadn't been through a storm of flying kitchen supplies. With the locket now back in his possession, Voldemort glimpsed back at the aftermath of that little scuffle, and satisfied with his work, he disapparated away.

The elf's bloodied and decapitated head now hung along the walls, joining the rest of its brethren in their loyal service.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry for the delay and thanks for all the reviews! Might repost chapter 1-3 later on (hope no one minds for those on email alert).

o-O-o

The creak of the metal chain rang out as he swung his legs back and forth on the swing. Laughter from the other children filled his ears, a stark reminder of his exclusion from their games. With his head hung down, he continued to sit by himself. Eventually, the momentum of the swing gradually slowed to a halt.

Dudley's ninth birthday had come and passed. His relatives, indulgent as they ever were, decided to throw Dudley a grand party. And like every other of his cousin's birthday, he'd been left alone with Mrs. Figg. Every year was the same, and he adamantly told himself that he no longer cared whether he was there or not.

Yet today, in a show of 'good will', Aunt Petunia had allowed Dudley and him to play in the park. Thankfully, his cousin had immediately run off once they arrived. Free from his cousin, he soon took to the swings since no one seemed particularly attracted to it. Most of the kids in the park were either busy chasing each other or playing a game of conkers. And once again, he was unwelcomed to join them, but he was used to the solitude by now.

"Hi."

Startled, he swiftly looked up. A girl with curly blond hair was standing right next to him. She wore a very light purple dress, a colour so reminiscent of his aunt's potted flowers. It seemed his stare lasted far longer than he thought because she repeated her greeting again unsurely. A light flush painted his cheeks, and he tried to brush his fringe to cover his scar.

"Um, hello." He was uncertain why she would approach him. Every other kid from the neighborhood knew well enough to steer clear from him; his relatives had made certain of that.

Her smile was wide as she raised a red ball in between her hands. "Do you want to play? I just moved here a few days ago with my family, and my dad told me to go outside and have fun. I wanted to ride my bike, but it's broken so I took my ball instead," she finished all in one breath.

"Oh." He glanced at his feet and fidgeted as she looked at him expectantly. Aunt Petunia had been gossiping about some new neighbors lately and going on about how she'd invite them over for tea. Other than that, this would be the first time he actually encountered their new neighbor.

"So? Do you want to play?"

He rubbed the back of his neck at the repeated request, all of a sudden shy. "I… yeah. Okay."

Her eyes lit up in delight. "My name is Emily by the way," she said, waiting for him to stand up.

"Um, nice to meet you. My name is Harry," he responded, quickly remembering his manners. He soon followed her as she led the way. They ended up walking to a less grassy area near the pavement. It was secluded from the flurry of activity of the other kids, but he could still hear their voices in the far distance.

"All right, try to catch this!" Emily yelled and threw the ball high into the air.

Surprised at the unexpected action, he ran backwards. He kept his eyes on the ball as it sailed towards him from above. Arms raised, he jumped up – farther and higher than he'd ever done – and caught the ball over his head. It felt as if he was suspended in the air for a moment, almost weightless until his feet managed to land back on the ground without tripping over themselves. Elated on his catch, he returned his gaze to Emily.

She was gaping in shock. "You caught it! I can't believe you actually caught it. That was amazing, Harry!"

Unfamiliar with such praise, he blushed. "Thanks," he mumbled. He then smiled when she continued to acclaim on his remarkable catch.

"Let's see if you can do that again!"

He almost dropped the ball at that. "What?"

It seemed Emily was serious about testing his ability, and their game of catch turned out more to be a game of fetch on his part. She would throw the ball as far as she can, and he would catch it each time without fail. It went on like that for a while, and he found himself enjoying the game immensely. Eventually, Emily eased up on her throwing, and it ended with them lightly exchanging the ball back and forth.

"Hey, Harry," she tossed the ball to him. "Can I ask you a question?"

"I guess… sure." His shoulders shrugged in a half-hearted agreement, and he bounced the ball back to her.

Emily caught the ball and held it to her stomach. "Why is your glasses taped together like that?"

He touched the middle of his glasses where the lenses were connected together by tape. "I-I fell yesterday, and it broke," he said nervously.

"Really? You sure don't seem like the clumsy type," she mentioned.

"Accidents just happen sometimes."

The real story behind that was far from the simple explanation he gave her. During one supper with his relatives, he unintentionally knocked over a cup, and it dropped near Uncle Vernon's feet. The sound of glass breaking stopped his heart, and fearing the worst, he immediately bent down too clean the mess. To his astonishment, he found the cup in perfect condition, no cracks or anything.

However, his relief was brief once he caught the look on his uncle's face. The man's face was blotched red, unappealing and bloated like a puffer fish. As punishment for his clumsiness, Uncle Vernon grabbed his eyeglasses and snapped it in half like a twig. 'And this will stay broken,' were his uncle's confusing words.

He shook free from the memory when Emily called out to him again. "You okay there?"

"Sorry about that," he said. "I was just day dreaming a little bit."

"Are you bored? Maybe you can throw the ball really far this time, and I'll try to catch it," she suggested.

He nodded his head in agreement, and Emily soon handed him the ball and ran back in preparation. When he saw that she was ready, he took aim and released the ball. It flew completely past her, giving Emily no chance as it hit the ground and rolled away.

"Wow," she said, impressed with the toss. "Stay right there, and I'll go get it." Emily then took off in an energetic sprint, leaving him to ponder if he should try out for sports based on his performance so far. Perhaps he could be the goalkeeper in a football game if he was ever interested.

He later glanced back at Emily, wondering if she'd retrieved the ball yet and was met with the sight of Dudley and Piers smirking at her as they held her ball. She appeared subdued and cried out when Dudley pushed her. Without thinking, he rushed to her side.

"Stop it!" He placed himself in front of her and faced his cousin. "Give that back, Dudley — it's not yours."

"Oh, yeah? Why should I, Potter?"

"Because it's not yours," he repeated slowly, hoping Dudley would comprehend the simple concept this time.

"Why do you care anyway? Is she your friend or something?"

He opened his mouth to respond but closed it a second later. Even though he'd just met Emily, he already considered her a friend. Yet he was too embarrassed to admit that in front of her.

"Hah! I can't believe you actually have a friend," Dudley said, taking his silence as confirmation. "Maybe she only felt sorry for you."

Piers snickered in response. The noise grated on his ears as he glared at them. "Just give it back, Dudley. Emily didn't do anything to you."

"So? I like this ball, and I want to keep it," his cousin bounced the ball twice for emphasis.

He took a step closer to the other boy. "I mean it, Dudley," he warned.

Dudley stopped and frowned at him, clearly wondering why he was being so assertive all of a sudden when he would've tried to ignore his cousin before. Dudley continued to look at Emily and him in confusion until a smirk rose up. "Well, I can give this back to her but not for free," said the larger boy.

He eyed Dudley strangely, uncertain where his cousin was going with this. "What are you saying?"

Instead of answering, Dudley directed his attention to Emily again. "You want this back, right? Well, you can have it."

She gave the boy a hesitated glance. "Really?"

"Yeah," said Dudley. "But you'll have to do something first."

"Um, what is it?" Emily asked.

The pudgy boy grinned with glee. "Say out loud that Potter is not your friend," ordered Dudley. "Oh! And say that he's a freak too."

His body went rigid at that, taken aback by the harsh demand. He knew Dudley was mean spirited and spoiled, but his cousin had never gone this far before.

"Ha-ha, good one, Dudley," laughed Piers.

Emily appeared conflicted. "But why—?"

"Just say it or I'll bother you again," his cousin demanded. "And next time, I'll take more of your toys."

"You can't do that!"

"Shut it, Potter," said Dudley, shoving him back. "It looks like she's going to say something."

He swerved around. Tears were gathering in the corner of Emily's eyes, and those brown orbs were communicating a silent apology. He swallowed reflexively, unable to say anything in response.

She looked away from his gaze and stared at the ground. "He's n-not my friend," said Emily, in a voice so soft and wrecked with guilt.

"And..?" goaded Dudley.

Now it was her turn to swallow nervously. There was a single, hopeful second when he thought Emily would refuse to utter another word… but he was wrong. "And he's a – he's a freak."

His stomach felt like it had been punched. All the air in his lungs seemed to be sucked out, leaving him to choke on nothing. Dudley and Piers guffawed like it was the funniest thing they ever heard. Their wide and round mouths were like sinkholes, a deep blackness ready to swallow everything up.

"That was hilarious. I can't believe you said it – here," said Dudley, finally relinquishing the stolen toy.

Once the ball was returned to her, Emily turned and quickly ran away — not once glancing back.

"See, Potter? No one wants to be your friend," said his cousin, "because you really are a freak."

He wanted to pretend that it didn't happen or that he misheard it somehow, but it was useless. The scene kept replaying itself behind his eyes. Satisfied with their work, Dudley and Piers sauntered off, still chortling in amusement at his expense. Standing there in a dull haze, all he could hear was the sound of their laughter. Echoing loud and tauntingly close, bouncing back and forth in his ears...

Voldemort opened his eyes as the thump of his heartbeat rocked his chest. Immediately, he sat up from the bed and remained motionless in the silent darkness of the room, trying to digest the last images of his dream… or rather a memory. His breathing was erratic as he attempted to calm his mind and emotions because everything still felt too real at the moment. The Dark Lord then shut his eyes and hissed a few chosen words in Parseltongue that would have sent witches flushing in indignation if they understood.

Unable to rest any longer, Voldemort got up and left the quiet of the bedroom for the cold hallway outside. Walking with his troubled thoughts, he soon entered into a spacious study as the fire lit up in the hearth. The Dark Lord reclined in a chair behind the desk and stared steadily into the flickering flames, going over the memory in his head.

What he saw and experienced was a fragment of Potter's childhood – a childhood reaped with little care and attention. He stubbornly refused to recall his own childhood at the orphanage. Their pasts were hardly the same since Voldemort was not a victim against the other bullying children. He was the Dark Lord, not some weak, poor boy. Voldemort reminded himself that he had become the tormentor among the flock of worthless muggle children… he had to remember that he was not Harry Potter.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, exhaustion and fatigue pressing down on him even though his body was physically fine. A few minutes passed as Voldemort gradually regained his bearings and sense of self. Once his turbulent thoughts settled, he then began to analyse and dissect each detail of the dream.

Despite the suddenness of the memory, there was a crucial element that he took note of. It seemed Potter had more frequent bouts of accidental magic than was normal for a wizarding child. It was nothing comparable to his of course. While Potter's magic was strong, the boy had never attempted to control it. Voldemort had learned to control and wield his magic long before he knew what it was. And that was the key difference between them.

Once the Dark Lord was finished examining every last detail, another question arose: How was it possible for him to see the boy's memory? Voldemort knew that he could enter Potter's mind to send images and visions. Yet this was the very first time he received a memory from Potter. Did the boy send it to him intentionally? That shouldn't be the case since his mind was blocked from Potter, and the boy didn't possess the skill to do so. Perhaps during sleep, his shields weakened enough for Potter's memories to filter through. Well, at any rate, this would be highly irritating if he didn't find a way to stop it. Potter may be his Horcrux, but that did not mean he would want to endure another lifetime of preadolescent experiences.

Assured that he would resolve the issue soon, Voldemort tiredly glanced down at the Gaunt ring that now adorned his finger. In addition to the diadem, he had also merged with his locket and ring Horcrux. Since the ritual, the incessant desire to reunite with his other soul pieces had not abated until he'd absorbed another two of his Horcruxes. Only then did the urge finally ceased to pester him. Afterwards, Voldemort had spent days testing himself, suspecting a curse or an unforeseen side-effect of the ritual. Yet after countless potions and spells, not a single anomaly was detected.

At the moment, he'd hold off on any further tests until he could gain more information. As for his diary Horcrux, Voldemort had decided not to absorb it. Strangely enough, his diary was perhaps the most independent and strongest of all his soul pieces. For that reason, he planned to use it for another purpose instead.

Just then the clock tolled, indicating the new hour. Voldemort exhaled an annoyed breath at the time and looked upon the many tomes littered across his desk. These were some of the many books he collected during his travels after Hogwarts. The ones lay out before him were all on time travel, which he'd been researching for a while now.

Voldemort paused when his eyes caught something. _'Now, what is this book doing here?'_ he thought, picking up the mentioned item.

This tattered tome was something he'd purchased on a whim in a foreign country. Voldemort took interest in it because of its age and rarity — something long before the era of the Founders. It turned out to be a disappointment when he finally translated the first chapter. Nothing but legends of different realms and mythical beings filled the pages within. The book was about foolish stories, and he didn't bother to finish it.

Although, perhaps now would be the perfect moment to read the book, and it should be able to put him fast to sleep if nothing else. His grasp on the language was more than adequate now, so he easily skimmed through the pages. His eyes were half-lidded as he read through a few chapters. It wasn't until he reached the part about a certain mythical beast that he began to pay attention. It was a creature with particular power and the ability to affect time.

Now, this was very intriguing.

o-O-o

Albus stared at the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black. At any other time, his conversations with the Black headmaster would typically consist of light banter between the two of them. However, at the present moment, there was another person standing beside Phineas in the painted portrait.

"Are you certain of this?" Albus asked once again.

"Yes," Walburga Black sneered, her thin lips twisted in reluctance. "I may not have been in my portrait at the start of it, but I saw enough near the end when that... that _half-blood_ killed my house-elf."

"Lady Black, I do not mean to dispute your claim, yet how do you know it was the Dark Lord?"

"I recognise him from our Hogwarts days — he's barely changed at all as a man," she went on. "I never knew for certain the 'Dark Lord' was actually _him_, but suspicion had always shadowed my thoughts during the early years of the war."

Albus peered at her shrewdly. "Even so, I do not believe that you would travel here on the death of a mere house-elf."

Phineas had remained passively silent during the exchange so far, opting to listen to his descendant instead. They had been conversing for a few minutes now after the witch had recounted her tale. Today was surely turning out to be an interesting one since Phineas had never predicted to get a visit from his great-granddaughter and hear this.

Walburga straightened herself primly and looked at the headmaster haughtily for a second. Finally, when she spoke up, her tone was rigid ice. "Do not think for one moment that this was to aid you in any form."

Albus held back a smile. "My dear, I would never dream of it."

Her eyes narrowed, trying to sense any ridicule in the remark. "My husband and I, we may believe in a world free of muggleborns and where purebloods rule without fear, but in pursuit of power, his methods were too ruthless to achieve it; too many purebloods died as a result," Walburga paused momentarily, refusing to meet his gaze. "As for my son — my Regulus... he tried to leave the Death Eaters but was killed for the attempt. I will not have this 'Dark Lord' continue unhindered."

When Walburga finished, her eyes finally met his in challenge, daring him to question her further. "Thank you, Lady Black," Albus said, deciding not to push her any more — she had already offered more than he'd expected. "I hope you shall notify me if he comes by again."

There was no response as Walburga Black turned away and left the portrait, probably returning to her own. With her departure, Albus walked towards the window in his office and gazed out into the cloudless sky. The meeting with the witch was unusual but not unappreciated. Never in his life time would Albus imagine Walburga to set aside her discriminations for this; it seemed some things could still surprise him.

"It is amazing what a mother will do for her child," Albus sighed. "If only she had felt the same towards Sirius."

"Sirius had always been too wild and uncontrollable to bear the name of Black," recalled Phineas, settling back in the painted seat.

"Perhaps not, since Sirius had become a Death Eater in the end..." Albus mused. "Yet there is a question that still remains: What was Tom doing in Grimmauld Place to begin with?" He couldn't discern the other wizard's motives and that troubled him greatly. What could be so vital about the ancestral home of the Black Family to garner the Dark Lord's attention?

"I assume you have prepared some kind of plan despite this new incident," the portrait prodded.

"Yes, there is at least one problem I have foreseen." Albus felt Phineas' stare on the back of his head as he viewed the Hogwarts grounds silently, not elaborating any further on the subject.

"Well, what are you scheming in that barmy head of yours, Dumbledore?"

The beard above his lips twitched in a half smile as he turned towards the portrait. "I have already requested a few people to station themselves near the Department of Mysteries in case he appears, although I have yet to inform them of a reason for such a precaution," Albus said with concern.

The Slytherin raised a brow at that. "Some will say that it's ill advised to keep all your cards so close to your chest," Phineas remarked coolly until a smirk made its way to his face, "but I sincerely approve of it."

o-O-o

The kettle above the fire gave out a high shriek, a signal to be removed from the licking flames. Harry took this chance to hide the rock cake in his pocket as Hagrid got up to prepare the tea. Ron had tried to feed Fang the cake a while ago, but the hound refused to even sniff it, so his friend had resorted to chucking the cake outside the window when the groundskeeper wasn't looking.

The small and cluttered hut always seemed busy with activity. A tiny cage of nifflers sat in one corner while hams and pheasants hung from the ceiling. It was very similar to a bustling shop, but it felt comfortable and warm at the same time. Hagrid had invited them over for tea again, and they'd both jumped at the chance to visit their friend and escape from the mounting pile of essays.

Harry had not yet asked Hagrid about the little package from Gringotts and why it was actually being guarded by a three-headed dog. Oh, he was beyond curious to find out, but Harry had held out on those questions because Hagrid didn't seem too eager to answer them the first time he'd brought up the topic. Other than that, Harry usually enjoyed their discussions about quidditch and how their days went.

"And congratulations, Harry," Hagrid beamed with pride as he poured the tea. "With that last game, yeh guys have won the Quidditch Cup."

Harry smiled in embarrassment. "Thanks, Hagrid." Quite surprisingly, quidditch had taken up most of his time at Hogwarts, but he didn't mind; he was proud to help his team win the cup. It was something Harry felt he actually earned, unlike the title of Boy-Who-Lived that was given to him.

"Hagrid, you should have seen the look on Snape's face when Harry caught the snitch. He looked like he was about to choke on his own tongue — it was beautiful," Ron sighed dramatically. But a second later, a frown appeared. "It's just too bad Slytherin will still win the House Cup."

"Yeah, with only a week left, there's no way we'll even catch up to them," Harry said, remembering all the points the potions master had taken away from one particular lesson when he was paired up with Neville.

"Well, there's always next year," the groundskeeper tried to console them.

His friend brightened at that. "I can't wait for next year 'cause I can finally try out for the Quidditch team too," Ron revealed enthusiastically. "Do you think I can make it on the team, Harry?"

"Um..." Harry took a gulp of his tea, trying to delay his answer. Ron's skills were not bad, but his friend needed a lot more practice in blocking the quaffle before he could even join. "Maybe you can make it onto the reserve position for Keeper instead?"

Ron deflated a bit. "I'm probably being too hopeful — you're right, there's no way I can go against Oliver for the position."

Hagrid clapped Ron in the shoulder, almost dislodging the boy from his seat. "Yer still young, so you'll have plenty of time to try out for the team in the future."

After that, they talked a little bit more on quidditch and then about Hagrid's encounters with Fire Crabs. Harry was about to take another sip of tea when the liquid in his cup rippled slowly outward, like a pebble being dropped into a pond. He stared at the table in alarm when everything in the hut started to tremble uncontrollably. The pounding and rumbling increased as though someone was knocking on the wooden cabin continuously with a hammer. Believing it was an earthquake, Harry held onto the edge of his seat.

"What the —?" said Ron before a hanging piece of ham hit him on the head, having fallen off its hook.

A few seconds later, the shaking gradually subsided to an odd stillness. Hagrid's brows were creased in confusion as he looked around the room. "Are the both of yeh all right?"

Harry glanced over at his friend. Ron was rubbing his head and scowling at the piece of ham on the floor. "I think we're okay."

"Speak for yourself," grumbled Ron. "What in the world was that anyway?"

"Don' know," said Hagrid as he inspected the hut before peering out the window. "Huh? What are they doin' outside the forest?"

"What is it, Hagrid?" Harry asked, also standing up from his seat. Did it have something to do with the shaking?

"You two stay inside while I go check this out," Hagrid told them. The groundskeeper grabbed his coat and soon left the hut after that.

At once, Harry and his friend dashed over to the window, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever it was outside, but they only saw Hagrid's retreating figure. Ron's eyes met his simultaneously, and an instant later, the two of them nodded in agreement. Of course, being the obedient Gryffindors that they were, he and Ron had decided to trail after the groundskeeper.

Hagrid was further from the wooden hut than they originally thought, so the two of them ended up sprinting quickly down the path. When they eventually caught sight of the groundskeeper, Harry could not help but gawked at the scene ahead of him. From what he could see, Hagrid was speaking with a bunch of creatures — creatures that appeared like any other man from the waist up, but from the waist down was an entirely different matter.

"Blimey," exhaled Ron in amazement.

"Ron, are they...?"

"Yeah, they're _centaurs_."

A group of ten or more centaurs were clustered near the edge of the forest, all imposing and majestic from where they stood. As Harry and Ron approached the group, it became apparent that Hagrid was involved in a heated discussion with one of the centaurs. Before they could hear a single word of it, the talking centaur stopped to stare at them. In turn, Hagrid twisted around to look as well.

"Harry? Ron? I thought I told yeh two to stay put," the groundskeeper said, shaking his head. "Well, never mind that — I need the both of yeh to get Professor Dumbledore righ' now. He should be in the staffroom with the other professors."

Harry hesitated for a moment, uncertain about leaving Hagrid and returned his gaze towards the centaurs instead. Most of their expressions were impassive while a few emanated a grim harshness. He was about to respond, but Ron beat him to it.

"Erm, sure, Hagrid," said Ron, grabbing a hold of Harry's sleeve to pull him along. "C'mon, Harry."

His friend dragged him away, and they swiftly jogged towards the castle. Harry knew that he should listen to Hagrid, yet he couldn't dislodge the feeling that he should be back there somehow. Not one to ignore his instincts for long, Harry motioned his friend to stop.

"Ron, you go on ahead and get the Headmaster," he hurriedly told the other boy. "I'm gonna go back and see what's happening."

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Harry? I mean, those centaurs didn't look like they were there for a friendly chat."

"Yeah, I'm sure," said Harry. "I'll be careful so they won't know I'm there."

He soon left Ron and took a longer route around Hagrid's hut. Years of hiding from Dudley and his gang had helped hone his stealth as he slipped through the dense trees unnoticed. Careful to avoid the many branches of twigs layered on the ground, Harry hid behind a large tree near the group. It was far away from the centaurs to not be discovered but close enough to listen in.

"— must be a mistake or something, Firenze," Hagrid tried to explained. "There's no way someone would do that."

Firenze, a white-blond centaur, shook his head. "Yet it is true, and our leader, Magorian, has demanded the capture of the culprit."

"Do not dare to shelter the criminal from our grasp," a dark bearded centaur cut in. "We will seize our quarry even if we have to fight our way through."

"Bane, we are not here for battle," Firenze reminded with a hint of frustration. "Our conflict is not with the entirety of Hogwarts."

The one called Bane snorted in disgust. "As a warrior, you should not shy away from battle like a timid foal — especially at the height of this hour."

Harry didn't notice before, but every single centaur was carrying a bow with quiver of arrows on their backs. A few even had sheathed daggers along their forearms. Indeed, they were truly the image of warriors prepared to go into battle. The fierceness in their eyes and determination in their stance were sure discouragements for anyone foolish enough to confront them.

They argued for a few more minutes, not really reaching a solid conclusion that Harry could understand. It seemed Firenze had inadvertently become the mediator between Hagrid and Bane, but even Harry could tell the soft-spoken centaur's tolerance was thinning. A sigh of relief came from Hagrid when most of the Hogwarts professors finally arrived and leading them was the headmaster.

"Centaurs of the Forbidden Forest," said Professor Dumbledore, his head inclined in greeting. "Your presence is not unwelcome, but what has brought you away from your domain?"

"We demand the body of the murderer," Bane began without preamble, stepping forward from the other centaurs.

"Whatever do you mean by that?" McGonagall repeated in confusion. "Has something happened?"

"Perhaps an explanation will clarify this misunderstanding for everyone," the headmaster suggested lightly, though the missing sparkle in the wizard's eyes were telling in how grave he took the situation.

Bane stomped his hooves in impatience but conceded. "At morning's light, one of our brethren was found dead. His head crushed by a boulder no larger than his arm."

Harry pressed his body against the trunk of the tree and peered from the side. Along with the headmaster, all four head of houses were also there. Their demeanor ranged from silent worry to genuine condolences. The only one who seemed out of place was Quirrell; the DADA professor was pale and twitching so badly that Harry thought the man would faint any second now.

"I am truly sorry for your loss," said the headmaster. "However, why are you so certain that it was a murder and not just an accident?"

"The boulder reeked of wizard's magic," Bane declared, "and the location of the incident was closer to that of the castle than the village of Hogsmeade."

"Thus, you suspect the culprit to reside from Hogwarts," Dumbledore concluded, stroking his beard in thought.

Sprout then voiced her opinion. "That doesn't necessarily mean the killer is from Hogwarts though."

"We followed a trail left behind — it led directly to your castle," another centaur spoke up, bristling in annoyance.

The transfiguration professor shook her head. "If that is true —"

"There is no question on the validity of that statement because it is _fact_," Bane bit out fiercely. "A wizard from your school has entered into our territory and killed one of our warriors. It is your duty to hand over the killer to face our punishment."

"Ah, you assume we even know the identity of this murderer," Snape added. "If you want us to 'hand over' anything, then we must discover who this wizard is first."

"Then it would help if we knew what type of spell was casted," noted McGonagall.

"M-maybe it was dark magic t-that killed the centaur?" Quirrell suggested.

"Unlikely," said Flitwick. "Perhaps it was a Hover Charm or a Banishing Charm that was used on the boulder?"

"The spell is of little importance now," Bane said. "It is the identity of the murderer whom we seek to slay."

The potions master turned his body to face Bane. "You are incorrect in that notion. If you want to find this criminal, then you need to know that any first year could have performed a Hover Charm," Snape informed. "Are you saying that you'd be willing to execute a child then?"

Bane's form tensed, the muscles on his legs were taut with tension. "We shall do what must be done regardless of age."

Some of the professors were horrified to hear that. And Snape remained motionless as a contemptuous sneer crept up his lips. "Then you are no better than _beasts_," the potions master hissed.

In an instant, the sound of a whistle broke through the air, piercing the conversation — an arrow was barreling straight towards Snape.

_Clang!_

A shimmering blue shield appeared before the potions master, deflecting the arrow.

Harry's hand was over his mouth to stifle a gasp. For that one true second, he really thought the arrow was going to kill Snape. Harry might hate the man, but he didn't wish for the potions master to get hurt.

Everyone else was frozen in shock, unable to comprehend what almost just happened. Snape himself appeared disturbed but was otherwise unaffected. Yet it was the expression on Professor Dumbledore's face that made Harry shiver – it was sharp and cold.

"It is one thing to accuse and demand retribution for a wrong," the Headmaster said, lowering his wand, probably the one to have casted the shielding charm, "and quite entirely another to attack a member of my faculty."

Harry turned to look at the centaurs. The arrow did not come from Bane but from a red-haired centaur near the center of the group. The centaur lowered his bow but refused to back down.

"We come in pursuit of justice for our fallen brother," said the centaur, "yet we've received none but excuses and insults. The time for words has past."

Bane placed a hand on the other centaur's shoulder. "Ronan..."

Harry didn't know whether the gesture was in comfort or warning, but the atmosphere was so strained that he could almost visibly see it. The bows and arrows from the herd of centaurs were aimed and readied. On the other end, all the professors now had their wands out while Flitwick appeared to be holding back Hagrid, which was quite the feat considering their contrasting sizes.

The headmaster gave the centaur a penetrating stare. "Violence between us shall lead to little but losses on both sides," said Professor Dumbledore, his wand now tucked away as he came to a decision. "As Headmaster of Hogwarts, I give you my word that I will right what has been wronged to your people. Until then, all I ask is time. "

The knot of unease in the air dissipated as the majority of the centaurs seemed less inclined to shoot them in the eye. The professors were also calming down, although Snape still looked like he would love nothing more than to chop the four-legged creatures up and throw them in a potion. The last to stow his bow away was Ronan, whom without acknowledging anyone else, silently went off into the forest.

Bane let him go and huffed restlessly. "Then on your word, we shall stand aside for now," he accepted with reluctance, "but our idleness and patience will not be boundless, Headmaster."

Professor Dumbledore replied with a single nod in return.

Then in some unseen signal, all the centaurs turned and slowly ambled back into the forest. Upon seeing Bane purposely lingering behind the group, Firenze waited as well. Yet a stern look was sent to Firenze, telling the centaur to follow the rest of the herd. Bane's silent command eventually won out, and Firenze had no choice but to comply.

When the last of the centaurs were no longer in sight, Bane spoke to them again. "Ronan, the one who released the arrow… it was his blood brother whom he'd laid eyes on, lifeless and still in the meadow. He shall not rest until another death has been repaid."

With those words, the centaur galloped into the forest, leaving them with questions and mounting concerns. The professors remained to discuss quietly amongst themselves. Meanwhile, Harry leaned against the large tree and pondered on the death of the centaur. He closed his eyes as the thought of his parents came unbidden. Was vengeance the only way?

o-O-o

Peter Pettigrew's hands shook as he read over the instructions on the parchment again. A ring of fire surrounded the area from where he stood beside a table filled with potion bottles. He eventually grabbed the smallest bottle matching the description and opened the cork. A sniff almost had him gagging. Yes, definitely a creation of Snape's.

If it wasn't for the instructions his master had given him, then Peter would have never passed all the other protections. A shrunken music box was handed to him for the first one, and he couldn't believe how easily the creature had succumbed to the melody. And the rest were resolved with certain spells on specific protections, like a dark summoning charm for the flying keys. Yet what had him most impressed was the chess match. His master had written out each move to the last detail to successfully defeat the opposing pieces and win the game, as if the Dark Lord had already knew all the moves beforehand.

He didn't know what distraction Quirrell used to force the other professors out of the castle and thoroughly occupied, but it worked wonderfully. It gave him plenty of time to overcome the obstacles and hopefully, enough time to escape before they could discover a breach in the protections.

Pinching his nose, Peter took a gulp of the liquid and shuddered as the cold trickled down his body. With that done, he nervously stepped through the fire and entered into the last chamber. His eyes shifted warily around the walls as he walked further down. Sequestered in the middle of the chamber was a large mirror, its size dominating in the empty chamber. Peter approached the mirror and took out the parchment again to read the last part of the instructions. He blinked quickly and brought the parchment closer to his face in order read it again. And twice more in case he understood it wrong.

_Gaze into the mirror and seek the stone._

Stone? What Stone? He scratched his head in pure befuddlement, the last line throwing him for a loop. Did he really come down here just to retrieve a stone? Now, Peter was not one to outright question the Dark Lord, but this sounded just plain silly. When he finally glanced up at the mirror, his heart shuddered in shock.

Lily and James. Remus and Sirius. They were all standing beside him.

Peter quickly looked behind him, but no one was there. He turned back to the mirror and there they were — surrounding him happily. Everyone was smiling at him, all filled with excitement to be reunited once more. Their warm eyes welcomed and accepted him. His friends embraced him as a brother and lost friend. And most important of all, they viewed him as their _equal_.

He screwed his eyes shut. "Lies! Lies!" Peter shouted, quickly angered by the illusion.

They had never treated him as an equal. James considered him weak and pathetic, never once giving him a second thought. Sirius' _playful_ teasing and belittling were most often bordering on cruel mocking. Even poor Remus looked down upon him as an inferior wizard. And Lily... Lily always pitied him in her kind and sweet way — he hated that part about her the most. Peter hated them all.

"No more," he pleaded to the mirror, unable to stand the false reality. Peter just wanted to find the stone or whatever it was and get the hell out of this place already. It was painful enough to see something he could never hope to have. Too painful.

It was then that the image in the mirror shifted. His friends vanished, and Peter only saw himself reflected on the glass surface now. Yet it was not a normal reflection because his counterpart moved independently from him. He was entranced by his reflection as it winked and placed something in his pocket. Hesitantly, Peter dipped inside his pocket, grasped the item and pulled it out. Glittering in the palm of his hand was a blood-red stone.

TBC

A/N: Dumbledore enchanted the mirror so that those "who wanted to _find_ the stone — find it, but not use it — would be able to get it" (HPPS 300). For Quirrell, he would have wanted to find the stone with the intention of using it for his master.

Also, another little tidbit: According to canon, Walburga was only a year ahead of Voldemort in Hogwarts.


End file.
